The Summer of the Mourning Cloak

by Kathleen Nelson

  “My goodness, what on earth was that?” she heard her mother’s voice, and saw the couple on the patio spring apart. “There’s something in my hair! Aaah, is it a bat!”

  “No, it’s all right,” Hugo said. “It’s only a moth. God, there are two or three of them! Hold still, I’ll swat them away.”

  “Moths!” cried Vanessa. “I don’t think so. They’re squeaking at me!”

  “I’ve never seen the wretched things behave like this,” Hugo was swiping at the moths in Vanessa’s hair, but as he did so several more descended around his own head. His swearing and cursing were worse than anything Sir Northcote had ever said, even in one of his more noisy outbursts.

  Hyslop watched without expression as more large brown moths circled ever closer round her mother and Hugo. He was batting vainly at a dozen fluttering creatures with his hands, but the more he did so the more it seemed to attract others.

  “I’ve never seen so many!” cried Vanessa. “It’s disgusting! Let’s go inside.”

  “The ghastly things have probably been encouraged by my idiot of a father-in-law!” Hugo was surrounded by moths now. “Good God! You’re right, we can’t stay out here. Let’s get back inside!”

  With hands flapping and swatting at the myriad wings, Hugo and Vanessa ran indoors, slamming the patio doors behind them.

  Hyslop stared out into the night, her eyes scanning the dark horizon. She took her hand from the window pane and nodded.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Coil Pots and a Disloyal Thought

  Hyslop left the cottage before her mother was awake. All was quiet downstairs, though some of the lights had been left on, and the crumpled body of a dead moth lay on the bottom stair. She was not sure if Hugo had stayed the night and she didn’t want to find out. She peeped in at the kitchen at the bowls of nuts, the two empty bottles and the wine glasses and decided that she didn’t fancy hanging around for breakfast. A nasty smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke lingered. There were disadvantages in not having maids after all. At least in Italy, at horrid Uncle Massimo’s house, Carla would have tidied up the previous night’s wine glasses and mess, and would have some fresh bread and jam ready for Hyslop.

  Today she was going to spend the day with her Godmother, just the two of them in the pottery. It looked as if it was going to pour with rain at any moment, so Hyslop knew she would not be missing seeing any important butterflies. She did not care if Zak Judd was following her or not, and did not bother to look out for him. If he wanted to lurk in bushes spying on her then he was going to get very wet. Besides, she had given him an important mission, and had nothing else to say to him for the moment.

  The two Bernese Mountain Dogs, Sasha and Skye, came bounding out to greet her as she approached Sandy’s house. Any worries and fears about Hugo and her mother were dispelled at once as she buried her face in the dogs’ soft black fur, and enjoyed the boisterous pawing and licking that followed.

  “Sorry, Hyslop!” called Sandy, though she was beaming proudly at the excited dogs. “Come on, girls! Let poor Hyslop come in!”

  Hyslop asked if the dogs had been walked.

  “They’ve had their early morning run round the woods,” said Sandy, “so they’ll be fine for a few hours. I thought we could have a session together, finishing that coil pot you began last time, then we could take them for another walk if you like. Looks like rain at the moment, but I’m hoping it will be fine later in the day. I’m not sure what time your Mum wants you back?”

  It amused Hyslop to hear Vanessa called “your Mum” and the implication that there was a set time that she was wanted back home was equally bizarre.

  “No particular time,” she said. “I’m on my own today.”

  “Good,” Sandy rubbed her hands. “I’ve got a delicious picnic lunch for us to have, indoors if necessary. I’m not much of a cook,” she laughed, “not like Penny and Ilga, but I do pack a mean picnic!”

  Hyslop assumed that a “mean” picnic was actually a good picnic. It must be some sort of English slang.

  “If it’s really wet, we’ll just eat our picnic here. I’ve got some brioches to keep us going until then,” said Sandy, producing a packet. Hyslop eyed them hungrily but said nothing. Instinctively she knew that Sandy was aware of how little food Vanessa provided.

  Sure enough, once they were settled in to the pottery, four brioches were placed on a plate beside Hyslop with no further comment and Sandy merely nibbled at a dry biscuit at the other side of the table. A tall glass of lemonade was also supplied.

  “OK, let’s leave the throwing until you’re a bit more used to working with clay,” Sandy said. Such a statement made Hyslop feel flutterings of happiness, as it implied an unlimited number of future visits. “You can paint that little coil pot you began last time,” Sandy tossed the ragged old shirt at her. “Pop this on, sweetie. And when you’ve painted pot number one you can start making number two. With pottery, as I explained, there are so many stages that you’re always in the middle of various different things at once.”

  Sandy supplied Hyslop with a set of tiny ceramic tiles, each painted with a different glaze, for her to choose a colour. There was no point in looking at the colours in their jars as they came out quite differently when they were fired. There was a dark green one which Hyslop liked. It would match the green tiles on the little fireplace in her bedroom.

  “That clay there is fine for you to do your next coil pot with,” said Sandy, picking up a huge lump of clay and placing it on a wooden board next to Hyslop. “I’m going to have to prepare mine though.”

  Hyslop watched in fascination as Sandy kneaded her clay as if it were dough. It brought back distant childhood memories of Nonna making pizza, lifting and kneading the floury dough with her gnarled old hands. Hyslop closed her eyes at the sudden sharpness of the memory. She realised that she wasn’t having to conjure up Nonna when she was with Sandy or Northy. In fact, she felt guilty at how little she was thinking of her life with Nonna now that she was in England.

  “It’s like making bread,” said Sandy. “Have you ever watched your Mum make bread?”

  “No,” said Hyslop. The mere thought of her mother’s long painted fingernails in either clay or dough was too extraordinary to contemplate.

  Sandy threw her head back and laughed: “No, I guess that was a stupid question. Even if you did hit hard times in Italy, I don’t suppose Vanessa would get round to bread-making! I bet her smile would charm the last loaf out of the local baker!”

  Hyslop frowned, as she remembered the letter she had written to Sandy, explaining how poor they were in Italy. It was still not clear to her why her mother had made her write such a pack of lies, but she knew she had to be careful what she said.

  “Was it really awful in your little cottage with no electricity?” was Sandy’s next question, and Hyslop decided it was time to change the subject. It was all right to tell things to the old man as everyone thought he was mad, but it was more dangerous to confide in Sandy, as she was, after all, her mother’s old friend.

  She shrugged and mumbled about how you can get used to anything after a while.

  “Why do spell your name Xandi?” she asked, hoping to deflect attention away from life in Italy. Also, it was something she was genuinely curious about.

  Sandy looked pleased that Hyslop had asked a question.

  “Ah, yes,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Well, it goes back to when I was at school, Hyslop. I guess that’s why your mother thought I still wrote my name with that silly spelling. I used to think it was very artistic and a bit different I suppose. Xandi with an X – it was meant to look mysterious. I told people that my name began with a kiss. Frankly, it was just me being pretentious! Me being young!” Sandy laughed at the memory, and Hyslop realised that she was laughing at herself, which was a strange thing for an adult to do. “Your Mum used to be called Nessie then, but I don’t think anyone calls her that now.”

  “No,” Hyslop shook her head. She had ne
ver heard her mother called anything other than Vanessa. It was amazing what she was learning from Sandy, though. For the first time in her life, she was encountering someone from her mother’s distant past, someone who knew exactly how old Vanessa was, and who didn’t know all the different cover stories in various languages that she spun around her whenever they moved.

  “Yes, that’s a good shade of green,” Sandy seemed to approve her choice of glaze.

  “It’s going to match the fireplace in my bedroom,” said Hyslop. “Then I’d like to make one for Malcolm. He lets me look up butterflies on his laptop, so I want to make a coil pot for his pencils. He says he’s always losing them.”

  “For Malcolm, eh?” said Sandy. “Well, he will be honoured.”

  “Don’t tell him, though,” said Hyslop. “I want it to be a secret.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” said Sandy. “But what about your mother? Don’t you think she might like one?”

  “No,” said Hyslop in a matter of fact tone. “She wouldn’t.”

  “Maybe for her make-up brushes?” said Sandy, and Hyslop detected a mischievous glint in her eye as she said it.

  “She doesn’t like my stuff much,” said Hyslop, and she watched the twinkliness disappear from Sandy’s face. “I know some mothers like their children’s artwork and stick their pictures on their fridges and walls, but my drawings and craftwork used to always get torn up, so I don’t show her anything I make now.”

  Hyslop felt a perverse pleasure in giving glimpses to Sandy of how her life with Vanessa really was. She was still not talking about any of the taboo subjects, so technically she was not disobeying her mother’s commands.

  “I see,” said Sandy after a while.

  They both worked in silence after that. Hyslop painted her first coil pot, and Sandy finished kneading her clay then took it over to the blue contraption which was called the throwing wheel.

  “Well, I was going to make you and Vanessa a mug each,” said Sandy, “but from what you say about your mother’s fine taste,” she paused, and the laughter returned to her eyes, “I don’t think she’ll appreciate a ceramic mug. So I shall just make one for you instead. Now do you want a big fat round one, or a tall narrow one?”

  “I should like a fat round one, like yours,” said Hyslop at once. “And what colour will it be?”

  “You choose from the glazes,” said Sandy. “I can even put a little butterfly on it if you like.”

  Hyslop felt a fluttering zig zag of happiness, and with it came another emotion, a thought that she knew she ought to banish, but somehow couldn’t, a thought that could only be whispered deep deep inside her: how happy her life could be if only Sandy were her mother instead of her Godmother.

  Her face must have betrayed something of the turmoil of emotions she was feeling, as Sandy looked concerned.

  “It’s all right, Hyslop,” she said. “I won’t do a silly butterfly. I’ll make it as accurate as I can. I know how important they are to you.”

  Hyslop looked up earnestly: “Thank you, Sandy,” she said. “I can’t stand it when people make butterflies all pink and glittery and silly. It takes away their dignity I think!”

  Sandy burst out laughing. “Oh, Hyslop,” she said. “No wonder Uncle Northy has taken such a shine to you. Now don’t you worry, I shall do my best to preserve the dignity of butterflies at all times.”

  Normally Hyslop hated adults laughing at her, but with Sandy it was different. It was the kind of laughter that drew you in, like a big fat hug, not the kind of laughter that pushed you away and mocked you.

  “I’m happy here with you, Sandy,” she thought. “So happy that I don’t want to move away again. Ever.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Clouded Yellows and a Slap

  Hyslop sat curled up on the tiny sofa in the front room of the cottage, reading her butterfly book. She was getting to know it as well as her beloved Narnia book. Her mother was out having drinks with Penny and Sandy and Ilga, having what she called a “girlie” evening, though none of them were exactly girls any more. It probably just involved sitting around a table drinking large amounts of wine.

  The pictures in her book were glorious. They showed details of both upperwings and underwings of all the British butterflies, and also enlarged drawings of many of the eggs, caterpillars and chrysalises. Her fingers traced the lines of each butterfly as she turned the pages, and she sat muttering Latin names aloud like magical incantations. She loved the book so much she rarely let it out of her sight. During the night it was by her bed so that at any moment she could reach out and touch its comforting hard cover.

  She mused on the number of butterflies with regal names: the Purple Emperor, the Duke of Burgundy, the Queen of Spain Fritillary, the Monarch. She wondered if they had been given these names because people were so awed by their beauty. Even the Painted Lady and the Red Admiral sounded like characters from a Victorian drawing room. Sometimes Hyslop would study the book seriously as if studying for an exam. She stored up information about their wing patterns, their life cycles and their food-plants, so that she would never appear as ignorant as she had on that first day in the garden when she had not known what a Brimstone was. It was much more rewarding than doing well in a class test when she impressed Sir Northcote. He didn’t give praise easily but she would know when she had astonished and delighted him with a detail or a Latin name. The ultimate reward would be his strange wheezing chuckle, or a gruff “Who’s a Miss Smarty Boots then?”

  At other times she just read the stories in the book for pleasure. There was an amazing account of a nineteenth century vicar who had witnessed the arrival of a great yellow patch out at sea, which turned out to be composed of thousands of Clouded Yellow butterflies flying from Europe towards the cliffs of Cornwall, just skimming over the waves. Hyslop groaned with longing. What an incredible sight that must have been. She closed her eyes and pictured the wonder of it. How could such fragile little creatures brave the storms of the open sea to come to England?

  Her concentration was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming. She whirled round.

  “Hello, daughter!” said Vanessa from the doorway. She had been drinking, and her face was pinker than normal. Hyslop was wary: the normal rules of gauging her mother’s moods did not apply when Vanessa had been drinking. She wished she had had the sense to be safely upstairs in her room.

  “Reading about insects, are we?” Vanessa’s mouth turned up in a sneer. Hyslop said nothing. It was best not to antagonise her mother when she was like this, and saying anything at all could prove dangerous.

  “Got quite in with the old man I hear,” said Vanessa, teetering over in her high shoes to where Hyslop was sitting. “As well as Sandy and Penny. They talked about you the whole night long! Thank God Ilga was there to talk about more interesting topics. Otherwise I’d have been bored to death.” She narrowed her eyes at her daughter. “Quite a little manipulator, aren’t you? Do you think you’ve got them all wrapped round your little finger with this butterfly rubbish?”

  Hyslop remained silent.

  “Well, you could answer me when I ask you a question!” said Vanessa, her tone turning from sarcasm to anger.

  “What was the question?” said Hyslop as blandly as she could.

  “I think you know quite well what I said.” Vanessa was seeking confrontation, which was the very thing Hyslop wanted to avoid. Slowly, not meeting her mother’s eyes, she stood up. She wanted to be upstairs on her own.

  “All this insect rubbish!” cried Vanessa. “How is it going to help you make your way in life, eh?”

  Again Hyslop said nothing. She closed her book gently and kept her eyes lowered.

  “Where do you think I’d be if I’d spent my life looking at insects!” Vanessa was working herself up into an even angrier state, and specks of spittle flew from her lips. “In the gutter, that’s where, Hyslop! In the gutter with the nasty little creepy crawlies.”

  Hyslop stood still as
a statue.

  “All these nice things you have,” said Vanessa, “all these nice people fawning over you. It’s all thanks to me! Me and no one else. Just remember that.”

  She kicked off her shoes and threw her expensive Italian handbag onto a chair.

  “You think you’re little Miss Popular round here, don’t you?” she continued. “With Sandy and Penny and the old man. And some of the others.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at Hyslop. “Think you’ve found a little paradise here, do you, where you can manipulate people!”

  “I’m not trying to manipulate anybody,” said Hyslop in a neutral tone.

  “Oh, really! Well, you’re wasting your time anyway. It’s Hugo that calls the shots round here, I can tell you!” Her mother pointed a wavering red-tipped finger at her. “The others don’t matter in the slightest!”

  “They matter to me,” said Hyslop, tucking her book under her arm and walking towards the stairs.

  “Don’t you walk out when I’m talking to you!” hissed Vanessa.

  “What is it you want?” asked Hyslop.

  “What is it I want? I want you to show me some respect, that’s what!” Her mother’s face was not so beautiful when it was pinched into its drunken snarl. Hyslop wondered if Hugo would be attracted to her if he could see her like this. “RESPECT! That’s what I want, Hyslop. Not too much to ask from my own daughter, is it! Mmmmm! How much fun do you think it is for me, having to work on new people all the time? Eh! You have no idea, do you! No idea of how much work, how much hard work I have to do to keep you in luxury, so that you can sit around and read about stupid butterflies!”

  “No, I don’t think sitting around talking to people and drinking wine is hard work,” said Hyslop quietly. The words seemed to fly out of her mouth by themselves, and for a moment neither of them could quite believe they had been said. The silence was like the moment after the lightning flash, waiting for the thunder to start. As Vanessa took in their full import, she made a hissing sound, then leaned forward and slapped Hyslop hard across her face. She snatched the butterfly book from her daughter’s grasp and hurled it with all her might across the room, so that it smashed into the glass doors leading out onto the patio, and flopped onto the floor.